More To
by danvseveryone
Summary: The trials and out come of Fiddleford's pregnancy. (Trans Fiddleford, not mpreg). Agent Jasine made fan art for this story here:
1. Fear

-More To Fear-

Fiddleford was caught somewhere between excitement and pure raw terror as all the signs added up. It wasn't the flu as he had told Ford who had offered him some experimental herbs he had been concocting. A cure all medication he had been told, he had stolen from the witch's spell book who lived in the mountains, Fidds was not looking forward to the consequences of that action but meek as he was if you wanted a fight he wouldn't back down.

He groaned caving into himself at his spot on the kitchen table, how could he make this pregnancy work in the dangerous line of work he'd been dragged into? He wouldn't be able to run that fast once his condition began to show. There would be no dragging Ford home after he was injured. There would be no quick escapes from gnomes or zombies or the creatures that lurked in the shadows, no squeezing through tight enclosed spaces to escape their grasps, no climbing up trees or tugging his hard headed boyfriend to go faster and forget about the final details as his 'research' awoke in a foul mood with strangers in its lair. He was more of a liability then he already was in this condition.

But with that fear, joy also illuminated brightly and warmly in his head, he was finally going to be a father. It was dangerous here for a child but they could protect them. A beautiful child to hold in his arms, care for and love, he'd wanted this for so long. A family to call his own. He never thought he would have one again after his own mother had labelled him as insane and the rest of the family only spoke of him in hushed whispers behind his back slowly but surely cutting every tie with him. He was unstable and foolish in their eyes.

He felt tears begin to slide down his cheeks as a new fear over took him, if his family so easily called him crazy, society would be no better. He couldn't get the care he needed without someone threatening to take the child he was carrying away from him. A sob hitched in his throat as his head collapsed into his folded arms on the table and he began to openly cry. They wouldn't care that this was his child, they would try to take this from him but he needed them to bring this child into this world safely. He couldn't lose them; he couldn't lose his dream of having a family to call his own.

Steady hands resting securely on his shoulders calmed his tears and helped pull him the abyss of his sorrow and worries and fears had left him drowning in and a gentle sweet kiss on the top of his head was able to pull him back to the shore of reality. He didn't fight those hands as they pulled him up further so their eyes could meet.

"Fidds?" he asked him not fully knowing how to continue and Fidds didn't want him to. The concern filling his brown eyes was all Fidds needed to give him strength to tell Ford what was wrong.

"Yer gonna be a daddy," he whispered in a hitched breath another hiccupped sob emerging from his throat.

Ford said nothing he just pulled him close to him, raking his six fingers gently through his hair understanding his pain. His own breathing had picked up now but there was wonder in his eyes but a shadow of fear still cast over them. He kissed Fidds once more on the cheek.

"It's going to be OK, dearest," he said soothingly continuing to stroke his hair, "I've got twelve degrees. I can make sure you and our child are safe and healthy."

Fidds didn't protest, he trusted Ford to care for him. He may be reckless at times but he wouldn't let any harm come to them, he fully melted into his words and reassurances as he began talking about what needed to be done to keep them both safe in his care.

But as confident as he sounded, Ford didn't feel that confidence. He couldn't do this alone, he needed someone else here he could trust. From the corner of his eye he caught his worried reflection from the kitchen window and knew who he needed.

This is going to be an on going piece. There are two more chapters to add that will be out soon.


	2. Stories to Tell

Summer had hit them with full force this year, Tate lay on the floor coated in a thick layer of sweat and glared over at his uncle in his underwear reclined on the only piece of furniture in the living room with the fan pointed directly at him. His uncle was so lucky, he got to dress however he wanted, neither of his dads would let him run around in his underwear. He could barely hear the TV over the loud rumble of the fan so he pushed himself up and climbed on top of his uncle. Stan wore the same annoyed expression he always wore but it became more aggravated when his well sized nephew began squirming on him in his effort to get more comfortable.

"Ya want something, kid?" he grunted out, the annoyance become more pronounced on his face the more the child left in his care twitched and squirmed on him, elbowing him more than once on his unprotected stomach.

"I'm bored Uncle Stan," he pouted, arms folded as he leaned into his uncle more blocking the fans air flow. He had a scowl on his face that his parents swore up and down he learned from him but if you asked Stan it looked more like the face Ford made when he didn't get his way.

"Well go do somethin' about it," Stan sneered his nephew's way poking at the little boy's chubby stomach (his papa Fidds defiantly feeds this kid too much he was getting an impressive sized belly on him) making him squirm more shoving at his uncle's arm, the pout turning into a brighter smile the more he poked his ticklish area.

"Tell me a story," he said in a commanding tone he was also told was somehow his fault. Fidds was one to talk, he saw the way he shoved sweets down the little brat's face to keep him 'healthy'.

"Fine, whatever," Stan grumbled after another attack to his poor stomach from the active child's elbow. He picked the child up and sat him on the floor, Tate's face lighting up. He scrambled across the room to his toy chest and hurried back to his uncle and shoved his toys on his chest.

"Act out your stories like you did last time!" Tate could be a very bossy child when he wanted to be, hands on his hips in a manner strikingly similar to his papa when he was reprehending one of the Stan twins for the usual things (monster hunts gone wrong, lack of safety equipment, Stan's demon ex-boyfriend almost eating all their souls, the works). Stan rolled his eyes at his bossy nephew but complied, maybe a little puppet show would get him to fall asleep.

"I ever tell ya about the time me and Rick Sanchez out smarted Rico's gang?"

"No," Tate said a smile blossoming on his face as Stan picked up his blue haired troll doll.

"Well Rick here," he started waving the blue haired troll in Tate's face, "Got it in his head one day that he wasn't getting his full cut for sneaking um…'Smile Dip' into the country and he tells me…" he paused a minute and picked up the manliest doll Tate had in his arsenal, a ripped army man with his sleeves tore off to show his big guns.

"Um… Stan, I'm the smartest person here, if it weren't for me all these bozos would be in jail. I say we steal half their 'smile dip', all the cash that little 'punk' Rico has on him and we flee back over the border before anyone's the wiser," he did his best and most mocking imitation of his former friend and temporary lover making the troll doll bounce in front of the manly army man.

—

Nearing the end of Stan's child inappropriate story (that Stan would later claim in his defense he replaced every word they would consider naughty out for more child friendly word), Tate's fathers were finally coming up from the lab for a break after spending hours working on what they considered their legacy.

"The next time I saw that blue haired troll, I was getting out of the Cuban prison he'd left me in," Stan pulled the manly G.I Joe out of the shoe box he had put him in and bounced him over to the troll doll in the Barbie car convertible, "I would have punched that man then and there but when he popped open my glove box and showed me all the money he'd made off that 'Smile Dip' I'd risked my life for, I fell in love all over again. Well until he left me in Vegas broke and with nothing but my car the next week."

"Stanly," Fiddleford finally asked walking into the room, eye brow raised, arms crossed in that way you knew you were in for it, "Why is that army man right there covered in ketchup?"

Stan smiled sheepishly and Tate happily told on his uncle, "Rick Sanchez had to make him fall asleep for the rest of time to keep his mouth shut. Uncle Stan says lots of ketchup comes out when you go to sleep that long."

Before Fidds could tear into him for telling his son another story 'little ears shouldn't hear' Ford broke in.

"Rick Sanchez you say?" he inquired and Tate picked up the troll showing his daddy who Rick was, Ford eyed the troll doll and a smile broke across his face, "That certainly looks like that old troll, my boy."

"Wait," Stan began a bright smile spreading across his lips, "You know Rick? How?"

"Ford and Rick were rivals back in Backsupsmore," Fidds began sitting next to Ford who had already taken a seat on the floor ready to bash his old rival in anyway.

"More like enemies!" Ford snapped taking the troll doll from Tate and Tate turned excitedly towards his father for another story, "He almost got Fidds killed!"

"He set things right and said he was sorry," Fidds sighed out and Stan was getting excited ready to hear this one. Anything involving Rick Sanchez had to be good.

"You see back in college; Ford was roommates with Rick."

"And he was always causing problems," Ford scowled glaring at the troll doll and then picking up the manly G.I Joe, "I would be trying to mind my own business and graduate from that—"Fidds's glare cut him off, "School that only benefited me because I met your papa there Tate," he quickly cut in before continuing his tirade, "And he almost got me expelled on three different occasions because of those parties that always ended with something blowing up and the cops being called."

"So how did he almost get yer boyfriend killed?" Stan asked watching to cut to the chase, this had to be good.

"Well ya see Stanly," Fidds began picking up a robot he had hand made for Tate himself, "I always had a weakness for robots and who would have thought gambling with them could be so dangerous.''

Stan began laughing at that, never in his wildest dreams imaging kind, sweet, law abiding Fiddleford as the gambling type but Rick Sanchez seemed to bring out the worst in people.


	3. More To Love P1

A chill had settled into the cabin and there wasn't enough wood to toss into the fireplace to warm it to a more comfortable temperature. Stan had expected the snow to start dying down in February, but like with everything else in life, once he let his guard down, it all went to hell and another snowstorm had hit. The television wasn't even picking up the local channels, but Stan found the crackling static more comforting than the dead silence interrupted every few seconds by the howling wind.

He lit up a cigarette to soothe his nerves. It was a known rule Fiddleford had set when he moved in months ago, smoking in the house was strictly prohibited. The rule had been met with smug smiles and cheeky puffs of smokes to his brother's face when he was caught smoking in his room the first few weeks until he learned of Fiddleford's condition and the real reason his arrogant brother had hired him as his assistant in his strange field of study.

Stanley Pines was going to be an uncle. It wasn't an easy thing to swallow at first glance, Fiddleford was male, his brother was male and he didn't care what they said, those were facts you couldn't change. Ford may specialize in scientifically explaining how the bizarre things that surrounded this town worked but biology was set in stone. They sat him down at the kitchen table to explain why he was called out here after two weeks of him wondering the same thing after his brother treated him like nothing more than an intern.

"S-stanley, d-darlin', yer not goin' to believe it," Fiddleford stuttered, actually stuttered like a frightened child afraid of being hurt. Accent thick as Stan had ever heard it in the short time he had known him. Eyes glued to the table, so unlike him, he was the type who always looked at you when addressing you with anything and always with a bright smile to make you at ease, but then he had just kept his eyes averted and his fingers in a death grip on Ford's.

He couldn't finish from there and Stan was overwhelmed with a deep sense of pity for this poor man who had shown him more kindness in the past two weeks than his own flesh and blood. He opened his mouth to tell him it was going to be fine, comfort him in any way to get that look of utter terror out of his eyes, but Ford interrupted him before he had the chance. He kissed his boyfriend's knuckles that were turning white due to the strenuous grip, silently telling him he didn't need to say anything else.

"Stanley, when you arrived I told you Fiddleford couldn't help me with my research any longer due to his condition." Ford began the speech Stan was sure he had rehearsed in his mind for days until he could deliver it like it wasn't something he was emotionally attached to, it was just another equation he had to spell out. He feared the worst at first. The nice man who always greeted him with smiles and a large breakfast before he went to spend hours in the forest with his emotionally distant brother was dying. Ford didn't really need him for his research, he wanted emotional support from someone he had trusted in the past when it finally happened.

He had missed the truth by a longshot.

"Fiddleford is carrying our offspring."

Trust his brother to deliver the news of his impending fatherhood in the nerdiest manner possible. He actually started to laugh at that moment, maybe it was relief, maybe it was in the strange manner Ford had delivered the news, or maybe the ridiculousness of the situation. He regretted the action immediately upon seeing Fiddleford still as distraught as he was when they sat down and Ford angrier then he had ever seen him.

"This is no laughing matter Stanley, it is a serious condition!" Stan was saved from listening to his brother's ramblings by Fiddleford, who glanced up at his boyfriend with a stern frown.

For a moment it almost seemed like Fiddleford was coming out of his slump when he shot Ford an incredulous look, but it passed from his face just as quickly and he took a deep breath before turning to Stan with large, pleading blue eyes that made his shoulders sag. Those were the type of eyes that would make him do stupid things just to erase the sadness from them.

''It's true though, Stanley, yer gonna be an uncle."

"How?" Stan didn't mean for the question to sound so accusing, but it was a lot to take in. He thought his brother being gay was the only surprise he would find when he came out to Oregon. He took that news well enough, Fiddleford was a very sweet man, maybe a little too awkward and gangly-looking for his taste but he could see why his brother loved him. Excepting they played god and changed the laws of reproduction in humans was going to be much harder to swallow in one sitting.

Stan expected one or both of the nerds, who hadn't been shy about babbling about their research to their new house guest before, to begin tripping over each other's words to explain how and why this was possible. Each correcting the other and simplifying it all to an extreme that would make Stan feel like they truly thought he was nothing more than a simpleton, but instead he was greeted with silence. The ticking of the clock echoed, creating an ominous mood that was slowly sinking into the room and drowning them in a discomfort that made all three twitch and avoid eye contact.

Fiddleford finally sighed, locking his fingers inside Ford's larger six fingers once more before opening his mouth, looking Stan straight in the eyes with a pleading look before biting his lip and looking back down at the table.

"Please believe me when I say that I am a man," he finally whispered, "but I may have some… biological differences."

Stan didn't press it from there, he placed his own hand on top of the hand that wasn't making Ford's hand lose circulation. He didn't understand, not even slightly, but he knew when to keep his mouth shut, even if some may disagree with him on that statement. Fiddleford was silently pleading with him to accept him and as insensitive as people often called him, he couldn't turn this man away. He couldn't turn him away like so many people turned him away, he wouldn't shun him like the world had shunned him. He was bringing his nibling into this world, he was family now. If there was anything to be said about Stanley Pines, it was that he didn't turn out family in their time of need. Maybe he thought the situation was odd but he wasn't going to voice it.

Fiddleford opened his home and heart to him the last few weeks. Making him feel as welcome as possible while his own blood only met him with a professional demeanor and, while he never commented on them, he saw all the distrustful glances that were always being thrown his way. The warm smiles and kind words Fiddleford provided always served as a reminder that those distrustful stares at his back were better than going back to living in his car.

Something was gnawing in the back of his mind though. Why did his brother really want him here? A pregnancy was a huge change in life but it didn't make Fiddleford an invalid. He could still keep up on all his jobs, pregnant or not. From the information he'd gathered, Fiddleford didn't usually help his brother on the dangerous fieldwork anyway. He turned his attention fully to Ford, never moving his hand from Fiddleford's long, slender fingers. He was going to support this man, he made up his mind on that matter. He was bearing his new nibling, if the catch to helping him was killing a man, he would, but he didn't want to be left in the dark on anything. A pregnant mate didn't erase the history he and his brother had. He made it clear he wasn't fully forgiven in his brother's eyes, so what reason did he really want him here?

"What do you need me ta do?" he asked, keeping his voice even and calm so as not to upset Fidds, but stern enough to let his brother know he wasn't going to dance around the issue. He wanted everything laid out on the table now.

"Ma told me about what you've been up to the last eight years." His stomach tightened as the words fell out of Ford's mouth. Ma had the biggest mouth in the country, he knew that every time he called her in secret behind Dad's back, but he expected her to keep her lips tight about his situation.

"And what's that?" he ground out behind clenched teeth. So that was the game. The distrustful glances shot at him when his fingers so much as grazed over anything in this house were adding up. That was their game, warm him up with the promise of belonging with family once more, then what? Ditch him when he couldn't cover up their mess and let him do their time? If his brother thought he was that naïve and that dumb he had another thing coming.

"Stanley," Stanford spat out, eyes just as intense as his brother's as he caught Stan putting pressure on Fiddleford's hand. It was clear as day that he wouldn't hesitate to jump across this table if his brother even marginally hurt his boyfriend.

Guilt settled into his stomach as Fiddleford's blue eyes once more hit his for a second, silently indicating with a flicker of his irises to his hand that he was applying too much pressure.

"Boys please, this is no time to fight," he managed to say squarely with an authoritative tone. Fiddleford was used to when petty squabbles were beginning to rise between the twins. Stan took a deep breath and melted back into his seat, patting Fidds' hand with utmost care to prove to his brother's protective stare that neither father nor child were going to be harmed by him. He reminded himself that Fiddleford was the one who needed help here. Stan was an excellent judge of character. He had inherited a keen eye for figuring a person out in a short amount of time, through body language, action, and dialect from his mother. Unless the man across from him was a Hollywood-level actor, he knew his type right off the back. Law-abiding, meek, the perfect sucker to fall for any scam laid before him. He wasn't trying to con the con man, he just wanted someone to have his back in whatever bind they were in, and what better place to turn to than family?

"Will you please hear us out, Stanley?" Stan played it cool, just shrugging his shoulders and turned on his million dollar poker face.

"I don't expect you to stay here if you don't want to Stanley. You don't seem to enjoy it here but as your brother, I'm asking, begging if I need to, two favors from you."

Stan stared his brother down, he tried to keep on a calm, collected business-like expression but it was cracking. Fiddleford squeaked as Ford's fingers began putting pressure down on his smaller hand and Ford silently apologized to him, pulling his gaunt, red-tinted fingers to his lips for a kiss to make it better. His brother didn't have much of a poker face, as hard as he tried to keep it together, an intense enough stare made the illusion of control crumble and the anxiety began peeking through. As hard as it was to believe, nothing much had changed these last eight years.

"What do you want me ta do?" he asked again, patting Fiddleford's hand as reassuringly as he could before retracting his hand back to his side of the table and folding both of his arms casually over his chest, smiling smugly at his brother as he began to squirm in his seat.  
"Do you know anyone who is good at forging documents?" Though his answer was clear and crisply said, it felt so foreign to Stan's ears. Stanford Filbrick Pines, the man who wouldn't even chance jaywalking knowing it was illegal, was asking him to find someone to do a federal offence for him. Did he hit a wormhole when he hit the Oregon county line?

He didn't know how to respond to that one, so he looked towards Fiddleford to confirm his brother had just asked him that.

"You don't have ta, Stanley," he quickly reassured him, his fingers twitching on the table, his eyes now focused intently on them as his face began to turn pale.

"I might know a guy," he responded coolly, shrugging his shoulders, "What are the forged papers for...?"

"We want it to appear as if Fiddleford adopted the child, or children," Ford said, the volume of his voice going up a bit as he became more nervous.

Stan glanced towards Fiddleford, who was nodding solemnly to everything Ford said, his fingers disappearing under the table. When he slumped back in his chair, Stan noticed they were resting on his stomach. It was just now that Stan realized his stomach wasn't as flat as he perceived it to be with his baggy shirt hanging off his thin frame, with his hands pressed the way they were he saw the bump. It was too defined to just be fat, if he didn't believe his claim before he definitely did now.

"You might be wondering why we want something like that." Stan wasn't wondering that question for the first time since he sat down at the table with his family. He was wondering who hurt Fidds in the past for them to be this cautious about this. Who had tossed him aside? He knew that scared look gleaming in his downcast eyes. He knew it too well, he knew what not being accepted felt like.

"I get it, Poindexter." He cut his brother off before he could begin trailing off into another long-winded lecture. He kept his eyes on Fiddleford, he didn't want him to sit here listening to them squabble again. Another fight was going to break out sooner or later and Fidds didn't deserve to be caught in the middle of it.

"Some people have their heads too far up their own asses to understand, not everyone is like us. I get it and I got a guy who can help, he doesn't come cheap though."

"Money shouldn't be an issue," Ford said, but his voice wavered, he wasn't as confident in that assumption as he wanted Stan to believe it seemed. It was fine, Stan could probably get a discount from Lou, he owed him big after that incident down in Texas but he wanted his brother to sweat a little.

"Anything else?" Stan grunted out, making it seem like he was the one in control here for once. A little payback for the two weeks his bro had treated him with such discontent. As long as the favor benefited Fiddleford and the baby he was carrying, he was willing to do anything, he'd decided that the moment Fiddleford's eyes begging for acceptance had hit him when this family meeting started. Ford didn't need to know that though. He needed to be brought down a few pegs if they were actually going to live together.

"I'm not always going to be here. I was hoping you could watch over Fiddleford when I leave to make certain nothing happens to him or our offspring while I'm away."

Stanley met Fidds' eyes and winked at him.

"I don't think that should be a problem, Sixer."


	4. More To Love P2

It was an odd feeling being in a place for so long without having to worry. He didn't need to worry about where the next meal was going to come from. No sidelong glances at every face he passed hoping it wasn't someone he had wronged in some sense. No long uncomfortable nights in his car. It was nice he realized, lounging in his chair in front of the TV. He actually had a home and his own chair that he bought with his own money. His brother may not pay much for his glorified babysitting gig, but it was decent money. He wasn't sure who he was babysitting though, he spent more time making sure his brother didn't die doing something reckless than taking care of sweet sensible Fiddleford (for the most part).

He briefly recalled the pixie incident a few weeks ago and shuddered, those things were more deadly than they had any right to be. He came out of it all with a third-degree burn on his shoulder, all of it over Sixer breaking into their nail salon. For all the trouble that was worth and not even a thank you from his brother, simply a sigh of defeat that they hadn't found what they were looking for. Nope, not again, he vowed then and there. Ford could go handle the strange and unusual on his own, he was staying put. Protecting Fidds and his unborn child suddenly became a valid concern for him after that.

It had been five months since he moved into the research cabin in the middle of the woods and there was no mistaking Fidds' pregnancy now. He had taken to wearing Ford's sweaters and sweat pants around the house, his usual college professor style had become too tight to fit over his extended girth. Even his more casual shirts and slacks had to be set aside and they had previously hung loosely off his thin frame. With Ford off on his newest adventure (something or other to do with the winter solstice), Stan usually had the 'pleasure' of helping Fidds haul himself out of bed every morning.

But even with the added tasks of assisting Fidds up and around that he usually left to his brother, he couldn't help feeling a sense of relief. While they weren't at each other's throats, a hair away from murdering each other, there was a tension that hung in the air when he and his brother were in the same room for too long. The fact that the tension and discomfort didn't break into a full-on brawl when Ford would say the wrong thing and Stan would retort back with something he knew was crossing the line was Fiddleford's presence and his natural way of diffusing the situation before anything could come of it. The past that neither could seem to shake off hung over the two like an ominous storm cloud rumbling in the distance, but Ford seemed to have buried it deep down for the most part and it only truly made its appearance in snide comments that may have just been a side effect of his charming personality.

Even with those storm clouds never far from them, they had settled on a truce of sorts. Ford wasn't the trusting sort and even with the bad blood between them, him placing the love of his life and his unborn child in his hands was enough of a show of faith for Stan to let it slide that somewhere deep inside his brother he wasn't forgiven, and maybe somewhere deep inside himself he placed the blame for his misfortune in life on his brother. He pushed those feelings back into a deep corner of his mind just as he knew Ford did, this wasn't about them, it was about making sure Fidds and that child were safe. Any of their other problems would be worked out with time…

Fall was coming to an end and winter had hit with full force, with temperatures low enough to make him miss the high humidity of the south every hour when he found himself catching frostbite under his thick winter gear just to have a few puffs of nicotine. An itch was beginning to grow at that thought, it wouldn't be scratched properly without a few drags from the 'cancer sticks' (Fidds had lovingly dubbed them) in his back pocket. He shuddered though at the prospect of leaving his warm seat and catching his death on the front porch just to blow a few clouds of smoke, it was funny that Oregon's winter was a better motivator to stop smoking than any of his former lovers' nagging.

Caught in the middle of an internal debate about whether he should get up and smoke or not, he nearly missed Fidds walking past him and heading towards the stairs, having trouble hefting two large cans of paint. All thoughts of having a relaxing afternoon in front of the television and only moving for bodily functions or smoking were cast aside as he shot up and took the paint away from Fidds before he could do any real harm to himself or, more importantly, his unborn nibling.

"We've discussed this," he ground out, shaking his head at the relief that settled on the other man's face as the weight was taken from him, "Painting the nursery can wait 'til Poindexter comes back from his commute with nature."

"But Ford's been gone seven days," Fidds sighed out, stretching those long arms of his onto the middle of his back and rubbing circles that looked more uncomfortable than soothing there, "He shouldn't have ta worry about gettin' the nursery ready and gettin' all a' his research done."

There was a pause, Stan saw the worry etched into every inch of Fidds from his downcast eyes, his frown and the way his fingers twitched as he repositioned them to rest on his swollen stomach. Fidds was the type to work through his worries, Ford had banned him from any strenuous work down in the lab, so as of late Stan had noticed he had taken to teaching himself to sew up a baby blanket from scratch. That meant many annoying runs to town for Stan every time the little nerd would accidently rip a hole in his blanket or, in the case of yesterday, somehow managed to light it on fire. Stan declared it was forbidden from then on to try to make the baby blanket have any kind of heating system in it. He didn't know why Ford needed to write essays about how to keep his boyfriend as calm and comfortable as possible, he was the one who often gave Stan unneeded stress. He had a new grey hair at every scheme either nerd got up to. If there was one truth he knew in this world, it was that despite what you may think based on first appearances, Ford and Fiddleford were meant for each other.

"And it needs ta get done, I feel like I'm goin' t' burst any day now, the little fella needs a space to sleep."

Stan groaned and rolled his eyes, there was no talking Fidds out of this. He either gave up a chance at a relaxing afternoon enjoying the lack of oddities his brother dragged home or he would have to endure his brother's wrath when he found out his mate went into early labor because he wouldn't help him put together the nursery.

"Since you can't wait, I might as well make sure you don't get me killed when you fall off the ladder and get some minor injury your boyfriend is bound to overreact to."

Fiddleford didn't seem to react to his annoyed, sarcastic offer of help, instead he smiled brightly and practically skipped up the stairs at his excitement that he didn't need to do this task alone.

Stan's face stayed in its annoyed state all the way up the stairs and well into the hour that soon turned into two hours as he ran the roller brush across the little nursey room's wall. For the amount of space and the lack of furnishing, it shouldn't have taken that long to paint the walls the hideous shade of yellow Fidds had insisted he wanted. No amount of persuasion on his part would change Fidds mind on the matter, he wanted this hideous bright yellow for the nursery because it reminded him of sunlight and Ford had just nodded in agreement on the matter. One-hundred percent fine with it, he wasn't settling to make his beloved happy, he genuinely liked the color. What did he expect out of a man who wore nothing but sweater vests?

Only about a quarter of those two hours of the 'work' was spent on transforming the fine-as-it-was (in Stan's opinion) nursery into an eye-bleeding, vomit-inducing yellow. Stan would give it to Fidds, it did remind him of sunlight, but only after staring directly into it. The rest of the time was spent with Stan's dry sarcasm expressing his disgust for the putrid color but Fidds seemed to understand him on a deeper level than that. He only smiled, laughed and got his revenge in his little innocent ways. 'Accidently' dripping the putrid color into his hair several times, peppering his brown hair with sickly golden polka dots. When they needed to paint higher, he would rub his swollen stomach and use his pregnancy (something he never did) as an excuse not to get on the ladder. It wasn't very high up but Stan always felt a sense of vertigo when on an unstable surface that wasn't properly secured to the ground. Fidds took pity on him though after his usual grunts and snide remarks failed to reach his lips after a few minutes on the ladder and his quick brush movements became increasingly slower and sloppier. He firmly made them switch places and made Stan stand behind him to make certain the step ladder didn't falter, always the cautious type.

Fidds didn't comment on the way he kept a firm grip on him the entire time he was on the little ladder (his annoyance was prevalent at his over-protective nature on something so insignificant though) and one foot pressed down on the bottom step of the ladder. It wasn't likely anything would happen, but he felt the kicks from the little life as his fingers brushed the side of his stomach and it made him more determined to keep Fidds in place. He'd failed a lot of people in his life but his nibling wasn't going to be one of them.

"I think that looks mighty fine, Stanley," Fidds said with a big, goofy grin growing on his face as he took in their progress, his hands resting proudly on his hips, "We can wait 'til the paint dries to put the furniture in but I believe the old antique cradle up in the attic needs some fresh coats of paint as well. Might as well haul it down now and get that over with."

"Why don't you go clean up?" Stan grunted, cracking his back and staring intently at the sweat beginning to streak down Fiddleford's pallid face, his sweatshirt rolled up his thin arms, "I'll go get that done."

"You're being awful generous, Stanley Pines." Fidds was wearing a smirk on his face that under usual circumstances would have lead Stan to flick some of the paint at him.

"Well maybe I'm just in a good mood," he shrugged, linking his arm around his friend as they exited the nursery together, "I'm a real nice guy like that Fiddleford McGucket."

"And what, pray tell, do you expect me to do for this generosity," he asked, a coy smile resting on his face as a single eyebrow rose.

"I'm offended that you think I would ever try to use someone in your condition!" he feigned surprise. "I would never!"

"Oh, I am sorry to upset you Stanley," Fidds giggled out before playing along and faking sympathy, looking up in Stan's eyes with blue eyes that sparkled. The kid was becoming a real scam artist; he was having a bad influence on him.

"Whatever can I do to make up for mistaking your character like that?"

Stan flashed him his famous award-winning grin no had ever been able to deny and replied, "Well you could make one of those special southern dishes, but that will only be a start. Forgiveness is earned after all…"

Fidds shook his head, smile never leaving his face, not containing his eye roll as he sighed out, "Well I would hate for you to never talk to me again. What ever would I do without your lovely sarcasm and amazin' 'wit'."

"You know you love it," Stan winked at him, heading for the next flight of stairs towards the attic.

"I s'pose," he heard Fiddleford groan from behind him, but he knew that smile was plastered on his face. Fiddleford Hadron McGucket was the most predictable man on Earth after all. Not that that was a bad thing, it just made it easier to play him if he ever wanted to.

The attic was packed with boxes and broken-down projects Ford had proclaimed failures but didn't have the heart to throw out after all the work that was poured into them. Stan couldn't say he didn't relate to where his brother was coming from with that sentiment, Fidds wouldn't let him bring in half the junk piling over in the back seat of his car fearing there just wouldn't be enough room. It was odd that the one thing he and his brother had in common without a doubt was not being able to let go, of good or ill things from the past.

With the holiday season coming up, the attic wasn't as loaded down with all of Fidds' kitsch and tacky decorations, so it was a little easier to walk through. He'd spent three hellish days putting up those decorations, he wasn't looking forward to hauling them all back up there.

He trudged through the mess looking for the cradle (that he hoped Fidds didn't want to paint yellow as well) along with anything else that would be needed for the nursery. Knocking box after box out of his way with little concern for the "FRAGILE" warning slapped across each box in Fidds' pretty handwriting. Knocking over one box he found some baby items, he raised his eyebrow to that. He picked up the mobile that looked handmade with individually carved nineteen-twenty style planes hanging precariously, each painted a different color with diligence and care. He remembered Fidds saying he had stuff in the attic for the baby but he was proud of all the items he had purchased for his nibling. Those parcels he had spent hours tracking down in the store and personally wrapped and put under the tree with care were going back to the store it seemed. After Fidds had failed to put a heating system in the baby blanket, he had forbid him from making the walkie-talkies like he had wanted to. Digging through another box full of what looked like brand new baby toys, he realized that the expensive walkie-talkie system he had gotten with a five finger discount would be one of the few things staying in the house for the baby and not sold for money that was needed anyway.

Where did all this stuff come from? It was a little too intact to be family heirlooms from Fidds' family (which was rather large, Stan was sure), some it still in its original packaging. He shoved that box aside and pulled open another with neatly folded baby clothes at the top, never worn judging by the pristine shape they were in. Underneath the clothes were a few folders, papers poking out from the edges.

Stan wasn't the type to respect people's privacy, if you were dumb enough for him to find it you deserved to have him nosing around in your private affairs. On a usual circumstance he would think of documents like this as blackmail, months' worth of ammunition to make snide little remarks and mess with his object of ridicule, maybe even get something out of it in return of keeping his mouth shut. He never said he was a saint of any kind, he may have deserved some of those trips to prison (he would never say so out loud though)…

If this was his brother's secret folder of documents he was hiding behind his boyfriend's back, it would be business as usual with him. His brother could be such a pompous asshole, he may have deserved a small dose of that treatment. Just enough to keep him on edge to get him off his ass about wearing his boxers around the house or having his deserved (if you asked him) beer and cigarettes in the house.

When he first spied the folders it felt like a goldmine of knowledge to hang over Ford's head, until after the pregnancy at least. With Ford so on edge about it, he liked jumping Stan's ass about every little thing and picking at old wounds with enough subtly to act like he was blameless when Stan shot something back at him. The excitement building inside him at this news dissolved from his mind as quickly as it rose there. They were letters, addressed to someone he had never heard of but her last name was McGucket. It was Fidds' birth name. In another folder he found court documents for a name change. A smug smile crossed his face, Fiddleford Hadron McGucket, leave it to that nerd, he could have changed his name to anything but dug up the nerdiest name he could think of. He was going to have a long talk with him later about what his nibling's name was going to be, he hoped he wasn't going to tag them with a name that would attract schoolyard bullies.

Flipping through the pages, he found something very unexpected, birth certificates… and two identical death certificates, the only difference in them were the names. Alexander and Alexandria Pines, only two minutes apart in birth but both stopped breathing at only a few minutes later. His eyes were wide, the hands that stashed the papers back where he found them shook. He bit his lip to still his breathing, glancing back at the baby clothes he had tossed aside. He had already lost two niblings and he never had a chance to see them. While he was down south hatching a new scheme to make it big, his niece and nephew were born and he had lost them before he even knew them. His shoulders slumped forward and the rest of him caved in with them, his fingers running across the fuzzy pajamas his niece and nephew were never able to wear. He hadn't even known. He had on and off contact with his ma and she never once mentioned he was going to be an uncle. He could see him then, dropping everything and arrest warrants be damned he would get back in Ohio, to that nowhere little town that's only claim to fame was having the school for the kids too broke or too dumb to get into the big Universities. Just to see the new additions to his family, even if it was just that one time.

He began flipping through the letters to try to get a better understanding what had happened, what went wrong then and how he could make certain he would be able to one day teach his nibling boxing lessons to protect themselves from the bullies the nerdy name he was going to be stuck with was bound to attract. They were all filled with the same trivial nonsense family members usually sent (or least he supposed they did) their children in colleges on the other side of the country. Except the very last one in the thick stack of lightly crinkled pages, that his fingers continued to crinkle with each word he read.

Francine May McGucket, you are not well. As your mother, who birthed you and cared for you your entire life, I am not going to sugarcoat the truth any longer. You are mentally unwell, you need help. Your father and brothers may coddle you but I will not. Losing your beautiful twins was a tragedy but that does not mean you sink into some delusional fantasy world where you are anything but a confused young woman. You need to pull yourself together, this has gone on too long. Changing your name to 'Fiddleford' was ridiculous enough but I could handle that. Dressing like a man instead was understandable to a degree since you are too stubborn to have a career more suitable for a young woman and I could let it slide. But when I heard you mutilated your own body to live in your delusions, that was the final straw for me.

Is it that Pines boy? Is he the cause of all this? Was he the reason you lost your babies to stress? Is he a homosexual? Oh my darling, if that is the case—

Stan couldn't read another sentence of that dribble, he crumpled the letter in his fist and tossed it across the attic, watching with a semi-degree of satisfaction as it hit the wall and fell behind a barricade of junk, likely not to be seen again. He wasn't going to read any more slander directed at his nerds. He had never hated someone he couldn't even attach a name or even a face to more than he hated that woman. Sweet, kind, gentlemanly Fiddleford's own mother was a judgmental shrew. What gave her the right? He slumped farther into himself remembering his own father turning away from him and leaving him to fend for himself unprepared in this harsh, unforgiving world.

What gave them the right…?

.

.

.

A hand on his shoulder teleported him away from the discourse waging war in his head and back to the here and now. He tilted his head up enough to see Fidds' blue eyes looking intently at him, filled with worry.

"Stanley?" he asked, sinking down beside him on the ground, "Are ya OK?"

Stan said nothing to that, he reached over and placed his hand on Fiddleford's stomach and felt the familiar flutter underneath the skin indicating there was still life there. Fidds sat silently next to him for a few minutes, letting Stan keep his hand on the center of the girth, letting those ripples relax his nerves.

"It won't be like that this time if that's what got ya worried, Stan," he finally said, his eyes fixed on the papers and baby clothes scattered in messy clumps across the floor, "That was nearly eight years ago now."

Stan couldn't find any words that seemed appropriate for the conversation so he remained quiet, running his palm in what he hoped were soothing circles above where his unborn nibling continued to squirm.

"If it wasn't for Ford I don't know how I would have made it through it all," he continued, not looking up from the mess on the floor, "They were so… cruel back then. I was young, my second year of college and I couldn't handle it. I just wanted to forget the mean things they'd say about me… my mother thought I was… well, still probably does think I'm crazy."

The last word was choked out like the very mention of it physically hurt him, Stan noticed a tear streaking down his cheek. Wordlessly, he pulled Fidds close to him and allowed him to cry as the bad memories rose to the surface for him. He stroked his hair and pulled him closer, letting him know he was safe here with him, Stan wasn't going to let anything bad happen to him ever again. Occasionally in the brief time he'd lived here, Stan had wondered where Fidds's family was during all this. He'd suspected they had cast him aside like he'd been cast aside, but having it confirmed that they just slowly let their own blood slip through the cracks when he needed them most left a sour taste in his mouth.

"What's their name gonna be?" he asked when he felt Fidds beginning to calm down in his arms.

"I'm rather fond of the name Oxford," he whispered against Stan's chest.

"That's what we need," he grunted, his disgust for the name evident on his face, "A third Ford running around the house."

Fidds chuckled, raising his red rimmed eyes enough to meet Stan's, "And what would you call them?"

"Well you can't go wrong with havin' another Stan around the house. 'Least then we can have more common sense around here. Face it, without me, you two would've killed yourselves…"

"I think we were doin' just fine," Fidds scoffed, relaxing against Stan, "The occasional mishap perhaps…"

"'Occasional'," he scoffed, adjusting them into a more comfortable position.

"Yes, occasional," he confirmed, firmly wrapping his arms tighter around Stan in the world's most uncomfortable hug, "It was just more quiet when Ford disappeared, I think I might miss all that back-sass if you left."

Stan scoffed once more, being his usual charming self, rejecting every name Fidds suggested well into the evening. Long after he'd bid Fiddleford goodnight, a terrible thought tore through his conscious like wild fire. They wanted a home birth. Stan had just shrugged it off and expected them to change their mind when it happened, as they had finally changed their minds about treating Stan's burns at home when Ford's home remedies weren't working and they needed an actual doctor to give them appropriate medication. He highly doubted they would change their minds about this. They were going to great lengths to keep this secret, to let Fidds have his privacy without being judged by the rest of the world, to not lose another child like before. He couldn't go back to pretending everything was OK after it settled in his brain. He didn't care if Ford said he had a medical degree, would Fidds and that child pull through the birth?

In the following week, he kept a closer eye than ever on Fidds until Ford returned. He didn't even start to let his guard down until he saw Ford settled next to his boyfriend for the night. Snuggled close to him, whispering science too advanced for Stan to understand, let alone a baby, to Fidds' beach ball of a stomach.


	5. More To Love P3

Two weeks later, Stan found himself once more freezing his balls off in the cold Oregon winter, he didn't even have a cigarette to calm his nerves. He pulled his hood up and rested his gloved hands underneath his armpits, glaring over at his brother, who had forced him out into this weather and wasn't even permitting smoke breaks. He huffed out another cloud of condensation and stomped his boots on the ground, his action earning him a glare from his brother.

"Stanley, honestly, if you're cold, you should consider preparing yourself for the weather properly," Ford scowled, not glancing up from his journal, crouched on the ground in the icebox that used to be a shed.

He opened his mouth to retort to his brother but the insult faded from his mind, completely forgotten as he felt something heavy draped over his shoulders. He smiled gratefully to Fidds as he walked past him and to his boyfriend's side. He crouched next to Ford and kissed him on the cheek, running through their 'test subject's' fur.

Somehow, they had ended up with a goat that must have risen from hell itself, by all means its appearance was normal enough (once you got past the third eye) but it was anything but normal with its fire breath and all. Ford actually spent money on this cursed beast that did nothing but cause problems, it had been in the lab until it nearly blew the house up lighting up one of Ford's dangerous chemicals (that Fidds had warned him several times to keep away from the demon's containment area). Stan had to clean out the shed and once more pile all of his past back in his car to make room for the beast, taking five hours out of his day. The warm mug of cocoa and freshly baked cookies from Fiddleford were almost worth the annoyance.

To make matters even worse, Ford had to have the dangerous creature who was pregnant. If they wanted a pet, Stan could have just brought home one of the many stray cats he'd encountered around this town. Normality was just one of the many things he had left at the town line. This was life now and accepting that meant embracing the fact that he had to stand by with fire extinguisher at hand, ready to bring another freakish horror into this world that his brother called 'research'.

Fidds was now being the good little assistant he was, checking vitals and making sure the 'patient' was fully comfortable with the soothing finesse only a gentleman such as he could provide, even towards a creature he was obviously nervous around and had to take a pause between each action to calm his nerves with deep breaths. Most wouldn't notice the pauses between his diligent work, but Stan did and each one made him more on edge. He saw first-hand what these creatures could do and Fidds was too 'gentle', to put it nicely, to handle it if the situation got out of hand, the rotund beach ball nestled under the thick layer of sweaters only made him more watchful of the proceedings. As protective as he was of Fidds, he was more so of his nibling. To the naked eye, Stan was annoyed, lounging against the doorway impatiently waiting for them to be done with this task.  
On the inside, he was a mess of tangled up emotions, each winding around the other, a ball of incomprehensible feelings settling in the center of his mind. Every medical action towards the goat was a team effort from the couple. If it took both of them to bring a demon goat into this world, how could Ford bring his nibling into this world, with both father and child whole and safe, alone? Without his assistant, who was always by his side, passing the tools needed, correcting him when he was doing something wrong, calculating just the right dosage to bring comfort, how could he do it? Would stress of seeing someone he loves in so much pain end up sealing Fidds' doom?  
As he sank deeper into the abyss of his dark thoughts, a realization dawned on him. It seemed he and his brother did have one thing in common—their sense of inadequacy and overflowing insecurities turned into an even worse quality: pride. A cocky overconfidence that drove their every action forward. His expression remained at its usual annoyed glower as he watched as their teamwork brought the new hellbeast into this world. Alone, would that pride that hid his insecurities from this world kill his boyfriend and possibly his child in something as dangerous and unnecessary as home birth? And would that break the cracks of his mask, revealing the fear and insecurities underneath? Would that be the death of his brother as well?

He was so engrossed by his deafening thoughts he almost didn't hear Fidds calling over to him.

"I'm not so sure Gompers fits this little fella, what do ya think Stanley?"

Stan scoffed, rolling his eyes Fidds' way, "Are you one to talk about stupid names? I can't even get you to change your mind about calling your son Oxford."  
Ford's face blanched at that and his head shot from his journal, "No."

"And what is so bad about Oxford?" Fidds pouted, turning his bright blue eyes his boyfriend's way, wider than Stan had ever seen them, not missing a beat as he cleaned up the baby goat, puppy dog eyes firmly locked on his nervous brother. Maybe the kid was a better con artist than he gave him credit for.

"It's… you see—Stanley?"

Stan rolled his eyes at the question being bounced back at him; Ford's insecurities and fears weren't as deeply buried as he had first perceived.

"We don't need three Fords? That seems like the worst option possible," he responded dully, knowing there was no talking Fidds out of a horrible name, even after going to all the trouble of leaving all those baby name books around the house for him to find. He changed the subject.

"You're just as bad at names, Sixer, what the hell is a Gompers?"

Ford shook his head at his brother and wore that expression that foretold the long tedious lecture Stan had just walked himself into.

"The American school system truly did fail you Stanley." Stan's deadly glare went unnoticed by his brother as he continued to talk, eyes glued to his journal, finishing up the final sketches of the three-eyed goat. "Samuel Gompers was the first and longest-serving president of the American Federation of Labor, well, that is until he made his higher-ups mad. He was the first ever human to successfully be turned into a goat, for reasons I'm not entirely sure of—I wasn't able to read that far into the documents before the secretary came back in the room, but it was noted they liked him better that way."

No amount of preparation could prepare him for the shock of that statement, his brother had made some outrageous claims in the past but this one took the cake. He turned to Fidds, begging him for an explanation on this one but Fidds just smiled widely, settling the surprisingly normal-looking kid next to his mother and shrugged his shoulders. He shook his head and mouthed his opinion on the matter, no, it didn't happen like that and no, he had no clue where Ford would have gotten these ideas.

"Hey, Fidds, do you ever just wish you could just forget the shit that comes outta your boyfriend's mouth?"

"Language, Stanley," Fidds reprimanded in a firm tone, but the carefree smile never left his face as he somehow managed to maneuver himself off the ground without assistance for once since his pregnancy really started showing.

Ford snapped his journal shut and shot a glare his brother's way, "Fiddleford is fully capable of making such a device, but it wouldn't be for such petty purposes."  
"Besides, that is dangerous," Fidds chimed in, dusting himself off the best he could, "I don't mean to brag but I know how the brain works Stanley. Damaging that many neurons for every inane statement my darlin' boyfriend said could possible lead to permeant, maybe even irreversible damage that only a desperate person at the end of their rope would even try."

"That's why we inevitably scrapped the memory gun concept, it was great in theory but needs many revised calculations before it could even be attempted," Ford was going into full nerd-mode now, thumb locked under his chin and fingers rested on his bottom lip as the wheels in his head began turning once more, "With a few tweaks we might even be ready to make a prototype by next month."

"No, Stanford, I told y'all I ain't risking the danger unless it was absolutely necessary to make," Fidds said in a tone that meant his word on the matter was final, "It's bad enough I risked the danger and my conscious for that other device for them…"  
Fidds didn't look very amused as he walked past Stan and, being the charming person he was, he just had to butt into the lover's mini quarrel.

"Who's 'them'?"

"None of your concern, Stanley," Ford cut in, pushing past him to catch up to his boyfriend, wrapping his arms firmly around him as they ascended up the porch steps, kissing him on the forehead, silently begging for forgiveness for riling him up in such a delicate point in his life. Fidds repaid him a kiss on the cheek before they both entered the house, Stan behind them, a little sour that Ford once more butt in, denying him of what was likely an interesting story.

That night Stan couldn't help lying awake once more, another night without sleep listening intently to the room next to his for any sign that Fidds or his unborn nibling were at risk or in danger. He heard Ford flapping his jaws about possible changes that could be made to minimize the danger of making a memory erasing device. As Stan listened, he couldn't help but think about how wonderful a device like that would be. He could erase everything about himself and start from scratch, rebuild a better, less insecure and more loving version of himself. He eventually scoffed at the idea, he was an asshole and he was set in his ways, with his experience he knew what this world was like and how to fight it. He needed that to protect the people in the next room over. No, he realized he would use it to erase all the negative aspects in their lives. They could truly be a happy family then and he would never have to worry about stress taking his nibling before he even had a chance to hold them again…


	6. More To Love P4

The day had finally arrived, the day Stan found himself dreading with each passing day. What had started as a relaxing evening to just kick back some beers and maybe just melt into his favorite chair, allowing his mind to numb in front of the television instead turned just as unexpectedly as the weather outside.

It was all blurry, unfocused memories to Stan. Through the anxiety and fear everything was mere screenshots his mind had caught like a camera before filtering out. The still-fractured shots played on loop in his head on repeat with each cigarette he lit trying to calm those nerves and make them stop. The pain. The blood. The hopelessness.

It was slow at first, the cramps were paling Fidds and he began to cry the more intense they became. Stan held his hand through it all, telling lame jokes to take his mind off the pain. His mind was an encyclopedia of cheesy jokes he was told only dads with no sense of humor would find funny. He smiled, realizing he was going to be an uncle with no real sense of humor now. Ford seemed to be encouraging the jokes and even laughed at a few of them as he raced around the small area preparing everything on his small tray propped up next to Fidds' cot.

It all fell apart when Fidds began bleeding, it was natural Ford tried to tell him and Fidds tried to tell him through hiccupped whispers as the pain shot through him. It didn't feel natural to Stan. All he could think about was that much blood could kill his friend. If he kept bleeding, he could bleed out. A scenario he hadn't thought of in years kept playing in his head, rewinding back to the start every time it finished. He remembered Rick Sanchez, a former lover and friend he had left behind with his wife four years ago. He remembered he had been shot in the arm after a predicament he had put them in involving a drug lord who didn't pay his full end of the deal. He remembered almost losing Rick. All that blood. If he hadn't have gotten him to the hospital, he would have parted with him in an even more heartbreaking way…

Stan must have been hyperventilating, the next thing he knew his brother was prying him off the already hurting Fiddleford who was sobbing as he squeezed too hard around his lithe, delicate fingers. Ford had tossed him out of the way and informed him of his uselessness before banning him from the lab.

That had been approximately two hours, forty-five minutes and fifty-six seconds ago. Time was the only thing he could focus on now to take his mind off of all the blood, pain and the possible final words he would ever say to Fiddleford Hadron McGucket.

Stan exhaled his final breath of smoke before crushing the cigarette bud between his fingers and tossing it in the garbage can. He shut the TV off before tossing the remote into his now-vacant chair, he couldn't sit here any longer. He had his breather, he was calm now, there wouldn't be any more threatening Ford over the things he knew he couldn't change. He took another tired glance out the window, watching the storm run its course; there wasn't a way to change it now anyway. He needed to get back down in the lab and finally put his nerves to rest, Fiddleford and the baby were going to be fine when he got down there.

His racing mind conjured every horrifying scenario it could with each step he took towards his destination, his pace managing to stay the same and he kept his cool, detached demeanor his life of crime had taught him to keep despite the chaos exploding in his head. He was momentarily able to detach himself from his thoughts as he approached the vending machine. He cursed under his breath as he entered the wrong code twice in a row as his fingers worked faster than his overtaxed brain. He briefly rested his head against the machine and the silence he received made his panicked mind spring to life once more with morbid possibilities. Fiddleford lost the baby, this would be the third child that poor man would have lost in his life. Stan had grown to love that man like family these last few months but he knew Fiddleford's type.

He was weak. This would kill him. If it got the chance, it was possible the bleeding had intensified over the two hours Stan had been away and both father and child were dead now, leaving his brother a widow. His fist tightened at the thought of Ford suffering alone because he had left him over his weak stomach for blood. He pushed the scenarios back in time to finally get the combination right. Fiddleford's pallid features and his sobs of pain were more vivid then ever as the elevator crept down to the lab. He might have prayed to some form of higher deity, his eyes had opened to the possibility after seeing more and more creatures he had thought were nothing more than fairytales over the months, but he doubted they would listen to a man who lived as sinfully as he did.

The elevator finally dinged, announcing he had arrived at his destination. A thick fog of unease settled over his mind as the silence met him as he entered the main lab, the flashing lights from the large machines being the only sign of life as he proceeded forward. The fear bit into his heart and soul as he passed by Fiddleford's tidy work space. The desk was clear and organized, neatly drawn blueprints pinned beside it to the left, his prototypes carefully stored away in the containers stacked up around his desk, they hadn't been touched in days. Ford's desk a few feet away was the polar opposite. Papers askew, wrinkled blueprints pinned on top of each other and prototypes with wires and screws still half undone were piled around the desk. He noticed his jacket hung up on the rack behind his desk, one of his journals that was usually never far from their author poking out from one of the pockets. Ford was still in the med bay it seemed, he wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not.

He heard the gnome continue to rattle the cage bars as he passed where Ford was containing the specimens now, in the back of the spacious lab in the far left corner. The gnome began making threats in his direction but he ignored him and kept his attention on the curtained-off area on the far right.

He slid the curtain back and his mind was finally put to ease seeing Fiddleford propped up on the cot in the right corner of the small confined area (he had been in jail cells with more space than the makeshift med bay), a thick layer of blankets piled on him. He smiled as he glanced up at Stan and pointed his head down to the blanket he had bundled in his arms, a pillow rested under his arms to help him hold the weight of it. His complexion was a sickly white color, his hair was damp from the sweat, his eyes still red-rimmed from tears and he just overall looked like he had to fight his way out of hell to have this child but he, despite his ragged appearance, looked so content. He had a smile that could rival the sun's brilliant rays.

"Stanley, come meet Tate Oxford McGucket-Pines." His voice was barely above a whisper but it carried in the small space. "Your nephew."

Pride swelled inside him as he moved closer to Fiddleford, pushing back the stool that the bassinet sat on in the cramped space. He crouched down to get a better look at the chubby baby's face peeking out from the homemade yellow blanket, it was a duller and a less puke-inducing yellow than the walls his poor nephew would be looking at his first few months in this world. Poor kid, without him around his father would make him die of embarrassment before he got to those awkward teen years. He just hoped the kid liked banjo music and science babble, he would be suffering through his fair share of it.

"I couldn't talk you out of Oxford at all?" Stan tried to sneer out, but the facade had cracked, a warm relief had flooded through his bloodstream, taking down his walls and leaving an unconceivable bubbly exterior in its wake. As Tate was offered to him, his smile didn't drop, his joy radiated around him, making even Fiddleford's exhaustion and leftover aches less apparent as he too settled into the content moment with his new family.

"I liked the name, but in one of the many baby name books I found hid away in every nook and cranny of this home, I did find a name I liked a little more."

The wisecrack at the tip of his tongue dissolved into his surprised, but still lighthearted gasp. A mix of fear and joy twisted inside his gut as the tiny, chubby hand emerged from the blanket and, light as a butterfly landing there, grasped his finger. Instead of the normal five fingers, it was an even six. Curious, he unwrapped the blanket more and pushed up the other tiny little hand; the right had a normal five count. Not liking being jostled by this unfamiliar man, Tate let out a mighty wail and wordlessly Stan passed Tate back to his father, who held the brightest smile imaginable to have his child secure in his arms once more.

Stan sat on the end of the cot, looking away from the serene scene of son relaxing at the presence of the man who had brought him into this world and looked towards his brother who had a very tense posture, all his limbs stiff and uptight, matching the stiff way his lips had straightened on his face. Stan watched him mechanically hand his boyfriend a bottle to feed their child, eyes not leaving the extra finger on his son's pudgy little hand that rose from the blanket and grazed against the source of his food.

"Fiddleford, dearest," Ford said the words in an even tone but there was a commanding, non-negotiating ring in the way he said those words. Stan was very used to words being directed at him in that way but a protective fire blazed inside him knowing it was directed at Fidds and it had something to do with his nibling's alleged abnormality, "Can we talk?"

"About what, darlin'?" Fidds asked, his proud eyes never leaving his son, tapping his finger against his nose that he definitely got from his father.

"About our son… and his… condition."

A pregnant pause filtered out any noise, not a word was uttered to continue this conversation. The first noise to break the spell all three had been put under, keeping them motionless and silent was the creak of the cot and the moan of pain as Fidds dragged his leg up to shield the tiny bundle in his arms from his father's dead-eyed gaze.

"No," Fidds whispered, wrapping himself around his child, "He's beautiful the way he is."

"But will the world think that?" Ford firmly spit out, but in the reflection of his eyes Stan caught fear, dread, and concern before the light hit his glasses just right, obscuring them. All things a father would and maybe should feel knowing what the world had in store for their child, but he was handling it wrong. Fidds didn't see those things, the light had erased the eyes of a concerned father and left the emotionless look of a man who might hurt his child. In his delirium and pain, Fiddleford only wanted what was best for his child, and if that meant keeping him away from his own father, so be it.

"Please keep an open mind," he continued, despite Fiddleford's desperate, silent pleas for him to stop, every time shaking his head, curling around his child protectively, "It would hurt him less for you to allow me to remove, his…abnormality early in his life than allow this world that, trust me from experience that even you should understand, won't accept him." There was a pause, but Fidds' mind hadn't changed. He continued to shake his head, rejecting the idea, and Ford let out a loud groan of annoyance.

"I accept him as he is," Fiddleford finally spoke as loud as he could through the pain still pulsing through him, but the words were stern and made it clear that his word was final. His next words seemed to cut through Ford, making his shoulders sag and the annoyance at his lover's continuous misunderstanding growing on his face.

"He's beautiful like his father."

"Fiddleford…" he spat fiercer than he wanted it to be, "It doesn't need to be done this second but as his father I am only looking out for his best interest when I say this. I want him to be happy…"

"Mutilating him is not making him happy!" Fidds seemed to regret his claim the second he spat it out and a thick tension settled around the couple, Stan a bystander sitting between them, watching the storm brew with each thick breath Ford took trying to calm himself before he said something he would regret to the love of his life and Fidds dissolving into tears.

"Why aren't you accepting our son… you of all people should…" he gasped out, pressing his cheek against his shoulder to keep his tears that were streaming down fast off his son, who was beginning to get fussy, sensing the discourse brimming between his parents.

"Fiddleford—"

"Enough," Stan finally spoke up, cutting this discussion to an end. This wasn't the time. Upsetting Fidds, who was in pain from bringing his well-sized nephew into this world with hardly any pain medication, didn't need to be fighting anything right now. As far as Stan was concerned, his word was the only one that mattered right now, anything else could be discussed later.

When Ford's eyes hit Stan there was a fire blaring behind them that meant this fight wasn't over yet, but he nodded.

"We'll discuss this when you are feeling better, dearest," he final spoke in a curt tone that didn't hold any of the sincerity that Stan knew he had meant to come out by the shaky, sad sigh that escaped his mouth afterwards.

"I need to go get some work done in my study," he announced, sweeping the previous fight under the rug, "Stanley, please keep an eye on him down here. There are pain pills over on the desk," he nodded towards his desk littered with medical supplies, "I prepared some formula for Tate in the fridge, the diapers are in that basket," pointing towards the laundry basket at the foot of the cot. "Put Tate in his bassinet when Fiddleford becomes too tired."

Stan merely nodded towards his brother, watching him as he approach Fidds and placed a stiff kiss on his forehead that Fidds barely acknowledged as the tears continued to fall. Ford then left the small confined area without another word, briefly glancing guiltily towards his family for the pain he caused, but he didn't utter an apology for it, feeling he was justified.

Stan rested his hand on Fidds' knee and patted it, trying to bring him some form of comfort. They sat like this in dead silence, only the baby's and Fidds' own whimpers drowning it out every few seconds. It was uncomfortable and awkward but Stan didn't break it, he waited until Fidds broke it, not wanting to cross any boundaries.

"Am I not thinking of my child?" he finally whispered, turning his bloodshot eyes in Stan's direction, that sad hopelessness sinking into them once more.

"What if Stanford's right? What if that is what Tate will want and I'm the one being unsupportive? What if he hates me for not allowing his father to do that? I am his daddy, I brought him into this world, but I'm not the final judge on his own body. Am I wrong to be acting that way the first chance I get?"

He was rapidly deflating into sobs, Tate sensing the man who he found the most comfort in's distress and began to wail loudly. Stan gently nudged Fidds over and wrapped his arms tightly around him, pulling him close on the enclosed space. He ran his hand up and down Fidds' shoulder soothingly, allowing his head to bury into his chest as he sobbed, his other arm wrapped securely around the little bundle trapped between them. Fidds and Tate weren't his in the traditional sense but they were his family and he would do whatever it took to protect them, and if that was from their own inner demons, he would shield them in his arms until they felt at ease once more.

Fidds' tears were beginning to subside and Stan finally took the opportunity to open his mouth and speak his piece on the matter.

"I think Tate has a great father only thinking of him. You're right, this is his body. It's not Ford's decision if he should have six or five fingers but his own. The world might be cruel to him but that's why he has me. If this world throws the first punch at him, I'll show him how to punch back and win that fight."

Fidds chuckled slightly at that, a tiny smile breaking through the confusion and turmoil, "He really will be a Pines then. Solving all of life's problems with punches."

"Well he is part McGucket, so he might try to reason with them first, then when they don't listen, then it's a punch to the face."

"Truly the best of both worlds."

Stan stayed by Fidds side for the next two hours, bringing him once more out of his funk with bad jokes and their usual banter. Fidds wasn't as quick-witted as usual but that what did you expect? He brought a living, breathing being into this world that weighed eight pounds, geez thinking about it made Stan wince in pain. He helped him feed his child but his eyes were already drooping from the exhaustion. Stan took over the task after forcing some painkillers down the poor man's throat. He was an expert when it came to feeding children, he had been the one in charge of all the night feedings and changings for Shermie, it was part of the deal for him being out as late as he wanted with Carla.

That long forgotten feeling of nostalgic bliss settled inside him as he fed Tate. Shermie wasn't a baby anymore. He would be turning twelve soon, how time flew by. He sometimes thought about visiting Shermie, becoming friends with his younger brother. Teaching him all he knew about this world, but as he settled Tate down in his bassinet and wrapped him in another blanket to fend off the cold then doing the same to his father, he came to the same conclusion he always did when he thought about that. It was only a dream.

Making sure everything was fine down here with the ones he loved snuggly asleep, he exited the small confined medical ward and went to try to bring some comfort to the brother he had, the brother he hoped to never lose again who was hurting alone upstairs.


	7. More To Love P5 (finale)

It wasn't a surprise in the least that Ford was working through his pain, journal open, jotting down notes from the maps and miscellaneous records spread across his desk, but the real surprise was the freshly-poured glass of brandy sitting on top of the mess on the desk, six fingers loosely tightened around the top of the glass. Once his other hand stopped frantically scribbling in the journal, he brought the glass to his mouth. Stan glanced over at an end table by the door where the ice tray sat next to two other glasses and a, by the looks of it, very expensive bottle of brandy. He picked it up, admiring his brother's classy taste.

A note was attached to it that read: _"Ronald Reagan thanks you for your support in securing his victory."_ He shrugged, not caring what shady connections his brother had with the government, it wasn't like his own hands were clean. He didn't waste another thought on it, merely pouring himself a glass of the expensive liquor.

"Stanley," Ford finally acknowledged his brother's presence, looking up from his work. He didn't look or sound pleased to see his brother up here with him and not keeping a close eye on his family.

"Its fine Sixer, your boys are all cozy and sleeping downstairs, we won't be up here long enough for them to realize they are alone down there," Stan shrugged, taking a seat on the couch across the room from his brother at his desk who continued to glare at him from the other side of the room. He cast a casual smile his way as he made himself comfortable on the couch, swigging down his drink.

"You've got some fancy taste bro," he commented, keeping the conversation nice and casual to relax his brother enough before they dived into heavier waters.

"It was a gift."

"Working with the government has its perks, eh?"

"It was business that I needed to do for financial gain and nothing more. I don't work with the government by any stretch of the imagination," he replied, but there was no sour aftertaste to his straight-to-the-point words, so they must have ended on good terms and he didn't seem to have any regrets for whatever he had done for them. It was business and nothing more. It was no different from any of Stan's scams, people may have gotten hurt in the end but it was a means to survive and nothing more, no hard feelings attached. He and his brother had more in common than people gave them credit for.

"What do you want Stanley? I'm very busy and I need you downstairs to make sure my family is OK and to report to me immediately if anything is wrong," Ford stated, continuing his scratching, circling a few spots on one of the maps and crossing out a few areas.

The shoe had dropped, it was all business with his brother, there was no chance of easing into it now.

"Ford, you had no right to stress Fidds out like that," Stan said bluntly. The statement had the intended effect of making his brother's hand stop writing and his body's upright posture deflate with the guilt. He drank the rest of his brandy with one swallow before turning his attention to his brother, his eyes hollower than Stan had ever seen them.

"That was not my intention." His words were flat but they had a true sincerity behind them, hurting his lover was not his desired effect as Stan had suspected, they both shared the same blood and sadly the same tendencies to hurt the people they loved most, even when it wasn't their intent.

"You wouldn't understand, Stanley," he began crossing the room and pouring himself another glass of brandy, "You don't know what it's like."

Stan watched him down the glass and pour himself another before he said anything. He knew his brother, they were two halves of the same whole as far as he was concerned (even if Ford tended to disagree), he knew what he was vaguely implying and he cut it off before he could start.

"Your son isn't cursed; you didn't curse him. He's fine, don't you start this blame-game bullshit now, Sixer. Your boyfriend needs you, and more importantly, your _son_ needs you, and they don't need you avoiding them to wallow in your own self-pity!"

Ford's head turned just enough for his fiery eyes to meet his own with that glare plastered on his face that would send anyone who knew better running the other way, but Stanley Pines had a nasty habit of not knowing any better. He shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch, sent the glare back his brother's way and even went the extra mile of being a defiant asshole by holding his glass in the air and giving it a shake, indicating he wanted his brother to fill his glass up as well while he was standing there.

Ford pushed the brandy roughly into Stan's hands as he walked back to his desk, his annoyance and anger at his brother stiffening his joints and darkening his features further. Stan's words had lit the fuse and the alcohol was going to ignite the explosion any second now. Stan wasn't smart enough to leave before his brother exploded, instead he poured another drink and stayed to see it out. Ford didn't go back to his desk like Stan had expected him to, instead he stayed inches away from Stan, his burning eyes that had held back pain and anger for years locked with his brother's.

Ford downed the third drink, letting his inhibitions die more, "You have no right to judge me Stanley. You don't curse every child you conceive!"

"You didn't curse any of your children," Stan spat, downing his own drink. If they were going to fight tonight they might as well be on equal grounds when it came to sobriety.

"Your twins were a tragedy, Fidds told me he lost them to—"

"Stress I couldn't prevent," Ford hissed, years of pent-up anger over the incident bubbling to the surface, "No one treated him with respect and I didn't have the medical knowledge to treat him myself then."

"Stanford, it's not like—" Stan began, but he was cut off by the anger finally snapping inside Ford as he chucked the glass forward with enough force for it to shatter near Stan's feet.

"…I held them, Stanley, before they died. Fiddleford was too sick, too weak to do so but I needed to see them. They were so tiny, a bright blue that will never leave my head. Gasping for air before they finally just gave out in my arms, where they should have been safe. As I inspected what would have been my children, I noticed both had six fingers on each hand. Do you know what I felt then, Stanley?"

Stan shook his head and watched his brother crumble to the ground, head hung in shame but his pride always keeping the tears back.

"I was relieved my children were dead. They didn't need to be hurt by this world. I hated myself." A tear finally fell and a steady stream began to flow down his face.

"I was relieved. When Fiddleford announced his pregnancy, I was filled with joy and dread that I kept pushing down further and further. It all came flooding back to the surface when I brought my son into this world and saw that he too was abnormal…."

There was a momentary pause as he choked down a sob.

"Sometimes I wish I could forget that, I wish above all else Fiddleford could forget that…."

Stan maneuvered around the broken glass and sank down next to his brother, seeing the sorrow only someone who had lost a child like that could feel. The sorrow of a man who understood the pain his child would feel in the future, being deemed abnormal, a freak, because he had been there.

"They would have at least had each other…" Ford finally whispered. Stan pulled his bro into the most awkward one-armed hug known to man, and yet it somehow seemed to soothe his brother, emitting the comfort it was intended to give.

"Tate won't be alone either, he'll have his family to back him up when things get tough. You and me will teach him to fight back."

Ford didn't answer but the smile he gave Stan held his appreciation. He began laughing, maybe it was because of the drinks, maybe it was because this was their first sincere moment in years, but he was laughing nonetheless.

"What? I thought ye could hold yer liquor," Stan grumbled, helping haul his brother off the ground.

"No, not that, and I can hold it very well thank-you-very-much." The last part held his usual arrogant tone Stan was fully used to by now, telling him at worst he was buzzed.

"Today is February 29th, Tate is a leaper," he said with a bright smile he hadn't held all morning, thinking of his son.

"What's so important about that? It's more annoying than anything since the kid won't have an official birthday…."

"No, no, it's wonderful," Ford said proudly, running back to his desk and pulling out the forged birth certificates Stan had gotten him a few months ago, only now filling it out completely.

"It's a sign, a Paranormal Researcher's son is born on an unusual day, he will make a wonderful apprentice once he gets older."

Stan couldn't keep up with the direction the conversation had turned, Ford was babbling excitedly about things he would teach his son about his field of study. Stan leaned against the study door and waited 'til Ford was following behind him, still going on about the endless possibilities.

On top of all his research was a birth certificate for Tate Oxford McGucket, born February 29th, 1980. To the eyes of the law, he was adopted, given up at birth from one of Fiddleford's family members and into his custody. The three men in this house knew the truth though, he was the biological son to Fiddleford McGucket and Stanford Pines, the hopeful heir to his father's strange field of study that would play an important part throughout not only his childhood but likely his life.

—

They returned to makeshift med bay together, the tension gone. The worry would never fully leave either of them but both had agreed with Fidds, providing the emotional support that neither would ever let a physical threat touch the baby sleeping soundly in his bassinet.

Ford moved to his sleeping lover and checked him over before placing a sincere kiss on his forehead, waking his sleeping "beauty" from his slumber.

"Ford," he whispered hoarsely, but Ford cut off whatever he was about to say with a tender kiss on the lips that took Fiddleford by surprise, but he didn't turn it away, placing his fingers lovingly on his cheek.

"I'm sorry for what I said." Fiddleford's smile was brighter than the yellow he had put in the nursery and just as blinding. With some trouble he wrapped his arms around Ford's neck and kissed him on the nose and snuggled contently against him as he sank down on the cot next to him. Stan made a face at their mushy moment and the joyous laugh he let out at the unexpected middle finger Fidds threw his way (he was so proud his bad influence was rubbing off on him so well) awoke the baby. Stan scooped him up before Ford could move fast enough to do so.

"Stanley, let me see him, you're holding his head wrong," Ford scowled, getting up as Stan shot him a cocky smile as he moved backwards away from his father's open arms.

"Let me have my son," Ford commanded, moving closer towards his brother, wanting nothing more than to hold his child and have a content moment with his family.

"But Tate doesn't want his father, he wants to stay with Uncle Stan," Stan said matter-of-factly, smiling smugly as Tate began to settle down in his arms and began to go back to sleep as he gently rocked him.

"Stanley," Ford sneered, hands folded, but there was mirth settled in his eyes as he played along with his brother's childish games, "Give me my child or so help me—"

"You'll what? Lecture me to death?" he mocked, winking at Fidds as his eyes met his own.

"How about you give my son back to me before ya wake 'im?" Fidds said opening his arms. Stan didn't deny Fidds' request as he denied his brother and handed the child back to the man who brought him into this world, setting the bassinet on the ground and taking a seat on the stool next to the cot.

Ford scowled at his brother as he nudged his boyfriend enough to lay on the cot snuggled next to him, one armed wrapped around his boyfriend and one hand resting on his son's head, content to be with his family, a weight still settled in his chest thinking of his son's future, but it lightened the more he sat curled against his family. This was as close to perfect as he would ever know.

Sometime later playful banter broke out between the grown men in this new family about Stan mocking the very aspect of poor Tate having to become his father's apprentice, Ford arguing it would be an enriching experience and Fidds putting his foot down then and there about the very idea of his baby boy going out in these dangerous woods with the intent of doing something foolish with his father. Another argument which was bound to happen started between the brothers about how to change a diaper properly soon after with Fiddleford playing peacekeeper between them. There was one last feeding and a checkup that Ford insisted upon, even if Fidds tried to declare he was fine.

The storm raging outside finally began to subside as the newly-formed family fell asleep in a pile against each other. Stan had somehow during his sleep managed to end up partly on the cot over the two lover's legs, which were bound to hurt in the morning, and his own legs propped up on the stool still. Ford spooned against Fidds, arm wrapped protectively over his lover, shielding their swaddled child from moving on his daddy's chest.

All safe, sound, content, and loved, never having to fear being alone ever again.


	8. Color

Tate squirmed on his uncle's lap, trying to find a more comfortable position before settling on the center of his stomach, molding into his chub and allowing his snores that vibrated through him to rock him into a more relaxed state. The remote that had disappeared somewhere underneath his uncle had changed the channel to something that failed to capture the two-and-a-half year old's attention.

One of his snores had made his uncle's long, curly locks of hair get stuck in his mouth, drool absorbing into it. Tate smiled at the chance to help his uncle before he got up grumpy about his hair always being a "nuisance" as he called it. Tate didn't understand why he didn't seem to like it, Tate liked his uncle's long and pretty "mullet" as his father often called it in disgust. Uncle Stan had once told Papa he didn't cut it because he liked annoying his father with it, Papa frowned to that but put his trimming materials away. Uncle Stan was very lucky, when Tate expressed interest in having a mullet like his uncle his daddy and papa always said no because he wouldn't take care of his mullet like his uncle didn't take care of his.

Tate pulled the soggy hair out of his uncle's mouth and proceeded to put it back in place, just marveling at his uncle as he slept. He wished he would wake up and tell him another one of his funny stories. He never finished the one about the Cuban Prison, he didn't understand why he stopped when Papa came into the room…

As it was bound to happen, Tate became bored watching his uncle snore and pushed himself off of him, leaving to find something to do while both of his dads were downstairs where he wasn't allowed to go as his uncle continued to sleep. He would wake him up but his uncle wasn't like his dads, he slept through everything.

He went upstairs, chubby fingers grasping the railing tight as he hefted himself up each step. It was a much harder task without one of his dads or his uncle assisting him every step of the way or just carrying him like he found he preferred after the treacherous and long trip up the stairs. He was exhausted and out of breath by the time he made it up the final step, so he sat down in the hallway, catching his breath. A smile crept across his lips at the feeling of accomplishment of doing something on his own, it made him feel like his dad after days without sleep and he woke everyone up yelling of his achievement in finally putting the pieces together right. He liked those nights, even if Papa and Uncle Stan seemed to agree they were annoying. Daddy would pick him up and show him what he'd been up to for days in his journal, and even though he didn't fully comprehend what he was talking about he liked looking at his pretty pictures.

A saddening thought occurred to him as he sat there catching his breath, Daddy was always so busy he never had time to color his pretty pictures. He pushed himself off the floor and made his way to his dad's study where the door was wide open like he sometimes left it, bringing stacks of papers and unfinished toys he called models down to the lab that Tate was sad he wasn't allowed to go into, not until you're older Daddy would always say, kissing him, and Uncle Stan said he wouldn't want to when he was older anyways. His parents would reprimand him about discouraging his "budding love for science", as they called it, but he really just wanted to play with the toys his dads were always making...  
Daddy's study was boring, no different than the dad's on TV's studies, but it always felt special to Tate. His dad worked on his journal in here and that was a book filled with magic, real magic, not like the fake magic Uncle Stan made fun on TV and told Tate in long, important details Tate felt bad for never remembering how the magicians were "pulling the wool of those suckers' eyes". He quickly sidestepped around the rug on the floor that his dads had warned him not to touch, he could end up stuck as a bug or something equally as awful if he wasn't careful. Making it around the rug he let out a sigh of relief and a sense of joy shot through him like the fireworks Uncle Stan said he wasn't allowed to tell anyone about as he laid his eyes on the journal sitting open where Daddy had left it on the desk. Squeaking with delight he clambered up the chair and grabbed the journal, falling on his butt rather hard into the large chair in his haste to get his hands on this treasure.

He looked at the golden insignia on the front with wonder and giggled a little as he placed his own six-fingered hand on the much larger symbol, feeling more connected to his father, a feeling of pride swelling in him realizing he was just like his dad.

It was going on twenty-six hours since the last break Ford had given himself, but he was so close to a breakthrough. Crumpled-up papers circled around his desk, the garbage can to his left filled to the brim with scrapped theories and equations that just didn't add up in his journey to solve the biggest mystery Gravity Falls had to offer: What attracted so much of the paranormal to this town? This could be a game-changer in his field of study but he had hit dead end after dead end trying to connect the dots.  
He crumpled up the failed equation and tossed it in the pile, the frustration bubbling in his stomach ready to explode in anger at any given moment. He growled, sinking into his chair. He was missing something… what was it?!

Loving, gentle hands eased the tension from his shoulders, snapping him from his aggravating queries that were painfully gnawing into his brain. He began to relax more under his lover's gentle care and allowed himself to slump into the chair. A few moments of relaxation never hurt anyone, a small reprieve before he jumped back into his work.

"I think ya need ta take a break, Stanford." There was no room for arguments in that tone. Ford scowled, he hated being at the receiving end of that tone, it felt like it belonged in Stan or Tate's direction for actually doing something worthy of being reprimanded.

"But—"

A sweet kiss with the aftertaste of sugar and coffee cut him off and made his insides melt at the power only one person could truly have over him. He was as enthralled by those blue eyes now as he was the first time he had really noticed them peeking over his math homework to make corrections he would have scowled at anyone else at for daring to correct. Maybe it was the exhaustion breaking down his walls, but he was willing to do whatever the man with those long magic fingers hitting just the right spots to relieve his tension asked of him. Well, his mind reasoned, maybe after a few revisions. He was very close to a breakthrough…

"I will, in an hour dearest. I'm very—" His words were cut off by a tender kiss on the forehead, the gentleman's way of telling you to shut your mouth and listen, as he had surmised after the near decade of being with this man.

"Go check on Tate and then take a nap Stanford, before I have to get Stanley down here to haul you back upstairs like last time."

Ford scowled at the notion, his brother never let those things die, a simple affair at the dinner table would be turned into mockery. His scowls wouldn't be able to silence him once he became, as he so lovingly dubbed it, "his object of ridicule". He wouldn't allow that to happen again. Not after he just saved him from being the gnome's hostage, he wouldn't allow him to have any more ammunition.

Sighing, he reluctantly nodded to Fidds' request and rose from his workstation that he hadn't moved from in hours. He pecked him on the cheek before exiting the lab, leaving his darling to work on his "personal computers". They were a waste of time if you asked Ford but it kept him preoccupied and content, too busy with what he considered the breakthrough of the century to worry about Ford (as often as he used to at the very least). With one final shoo to Ford, Fidds was once more back to work. He envied him for a moment but let those thoughts slide, someone needed to make certain his brother hadn't allowed their toddler to destroy the house while they were working in the lab.

Ford passed through the living room and rolled his eyes at his brother once more passed out in front of the TV.

"Stanley!" he barked out, and not surprisingly his brother continued to sleep, loud snores drowning out the television and echoing across the room like blaring sirens. On the TV tray sitting next to his brother's favorite recliner, a half-empty can of Pitt Cola sat, surrounded by many other crushed, turned-over cans and a dozen wrappers of eaten candy that he knew Fidds would kill him for for giving to Tate this late in the afternoon.

He picked up the can and without remorse dumped the rest of its contents onto his brother, giving him a rude awakening.

Stan flew from his previous resting spot, fists out, ready for a fight from what he thought was a threat. Once the initial shock wore off, he ran his tongue across the drops of soda streaming from his hair and cast a murderous glare at his brother, the type of glare that guaranteed he was going to pay him back for this in the near future and that that payback may or may not involve blood.

"Where's Tate?" Ford demanded before the curses broke from his brother's lips.

The seething rage drained from Stan's face as he glanced around at the toys scattered around his recliner, but with no sign of his nibling, and his face began to pale as the worry set in.

"He was just 'ere a second ago," he began, scanning the room, carefully combing through the mess for any trace of where the child had gotten to.

"Go make sure he didn't get outside because of your negligence," Ford hissed, cutting off any of his brother's excuses before they could start.

"My—"Stan began, but was cut off by Ford's glare that said he wasn't going to hear another word from his brother on the matter.

"Go check outside, now, I'll make sure he didn't get into anything upstairs." Ford's words were final and not up for debate. Stan slouched his shoulders, admitting his defeat wordlessly. This wasn't about their petty disagreements, this was about finding Tate before something happened to him.

No more words were spoken between the brothers as one shot upstairs and the other ran outside, the missing little boy and all his favorite hiding spots were the only things on both of their minds.

Once up the stairs, it didn't take long for Ford to find his son, his study's wide-open door was all the clue he needed as to where his child could be hiding. Knowing where he was didn't alleviate his worry and as he walked through the door, his eyes widened and his jaw dropped as his anger towards his brother's negligence intensified.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor was his son with permanent, un-erasable markers in a large pile next to him and his third journal, his life's work, all those years of research, wide-open and being used as a coloring book. Stanley Pines was a dead man when he got his hands on him.

"Tate Oxford McGucket!" He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible to not take his rage out on his son, but he couldn't keep his voice at an even tone. Stan may be the dead man in this situation but he needed to teach his son here and now that he couldn't take his father's research like this.

Tate dropped the red marker his six little fingers had been wrapped around and looked up to his father with a look that could mirror a deer caught in the headlights.

"You can't just take other people's belonging and color in them! Your dad and I have bought you plenty of coloring books! Why are you destroying my journal!?"

Fat tears began rolling down the toddler's face and he let out a perfectly-pitched wail that could send the dead back in their graves. Ford tried to tell himself that he couldn't bend to this, toddlers threw fits, he couldn't bend to this one, not after his son had written in his journal like that, most of the blame may go on his brother's shoulders but he had to teach his son that this isn't proper behavior.

"Tate," he began sternly, but his son continued to bellow in despair for getting caught in the act by Daddy, "You know it's wrong to touch other people's things, your papa and I have told you many times. Dry your tears up and tell Daddy why you touched his book."

Tate didn't do as Ford asked, he continued to scream and cry and Ford was silently wishing Fidds or even Stan would come up here and assist him with this. He had never personally dealt with one of his son's tantrums and didn't know how to handle them. He couldn't bring himself to yell at his child or use any sort of corporal punishment on him, not on the little boy who was always so well-behaved for him. He didn't know what to do but stand in the doorway and watch his son cry.

Instead of the rage he thought he would feel seeing his brother once more, out of breath and panting behind him, he felt relief. He looked to his brother in desperation and then towards his crying son, silently begging him to tell him what to do to make him stop.

"I-I just wanted to h-h-help you with y-yer book!" Tate finally wailed out before crying harder at his father's disappointment for him trying to help.

"Comfort yer son," Stan hissed to him, pushing him into the room.

Ford crossed the room and picked up his son, holding him awkwardly as he continued to cry. He pressed his son gently against his shoulder like he did when he was a baby and began patting his back. He couldn't even bring himself to scold his child for trying to help him. He looked down at the journal where the once black and white gnome's hat was, now colored with a bright red, pride swelling in him, his two-year-old colored in the lines. His son was so smart and talented for his age.

"If you'll excuse me Sixer, I gotta go clean my mullet, I'm sure you've got this covered," Stan announced loudly and Ford waved him off, sinking onto the floor with his son still in his arms.

"It's ok Tate," Ford soothed, rubbing his back, "Daddy's not mad anymore, I think you're making an improvement to Daddy's journal."

Tate began to settle down at that and looked up to his father with bloodshot eyes and a tiny smile growing on his face.

"Really!" Ford said in as soothing a voice as he could manage, "Maybe color will make Daddy's work stand out more."

"R-really?" Tate gasped out, wiping snot on the back of his new sweater. Ford chuckled, cleaning his child's face with the sleeves of his jacket and settled him down on his lap.

"Of course my boy." He began picking up one of the markers off the floor and began to color the gnome's shirt blue, "The gnomes are very colorful creatures full of mystery."

"Mystery?" Tate gasped out, watching his father color.

"Out of all the creatures in this town, the gnomes are some of the most allusive," Ford sighed out, Tate's big blue eyes looking intently up at his father while he talked, "I've been in this town for years and I still don't know what's under their hats."

Tate put his hand under his chin and began to ponder his father's words and then gasped out with a bright smile on his face, "More pointy hats!"

Ford smiled to that theory, writing the words "Pointy Hats" at the bottom of the journal to mark his son's first theory on the unexplained things that went on in this town.

"That's a good theory, my boy," Ford said, the wheels in his own head beginning to turn as he looked at the pointy hat the little finger was pointing towards, "But I'm afraid with each step forward I take on this endeavor to find out what's truly under their hats, I take two steps backwards. They were so bitter about me finding my answers last time, they tied me up and threw me down the bottomless pit." A bright smile broke across his face and his son mirrored his expression as he exclaimed with triumph, "But the joke was on them, they only helped me collect research for another project!"

Tate settled onto his father's lap, watching him color and soon fell asleep there, enticed by his father's tales of heroics and wonder.

Fiddleford later came to check up on Ford to find him snuggled against their son, journal open before them, the Gnome page now fully colored to the author's approval. Fidds smiled, leaning against the door, breathing in the beautiful moment between father and son. He turned his head away for a moment to find Stan with a large, smug grin on his face as he offered Fidds the old camera that had been through hell and back on all of Ford's expeditions. He smiled, accepting his friend's offer. What was blackmail material to Stanley Pines was a lovely scrapbook opportunity to Fiddleford.


End file.
